


ghost of you (it's everywhere)

by cigarettestainedeyes



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Fluff and Angst, M/M, just a lil thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 10:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17917169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigarettestainedeyes/pseuds/cigarettestainedeyes
Summary: Quentin cocked his head to the side. “Are you Eliot?”Oh fuck, that was heartbreaking.





	1. Chapter 1

Eliot woke up in his Fillory quarters nestled in several, thick blankets while Fen dabbed at his head with a damp rag. He remembered everything, though the last few bites of his memory bank were dark around the edges, polaroids that were grainy and blown out with too much light. He was back in his body. 

“Hey.” His voice was course, thick with sleep and sharp with worry.

“ _Oh_ , Eliot, thank _goodness!”_ She said breathlessly, leaning in to wrap her arms around him.

He winced, his chest flaming in pain.

When he let out a weak groan Fen immediately withdrew from him.

He hadn’t noticed the healer near the door who immediately walked forward and shooed Fen out of the way, undressing Eliot’s gauze and applying a thick, pasty white cream that made the pain disappear as soon as it touched his skin.

His breath evened and he cleared his throat.

“What. Happened?” He asked.

The healer excused himself and Fen took her place back on the edge of the bed.

“They did it, they got that...that _thing_ out of you.” Her face screwed up with hatred, her soft features becoming hard and obstinate.

“Everyone’s alive.” She sounded relieved but her eyes were laced with worry, she was holding something back.

“What’s the matter?” He asked, and felt a stab of fondness for her. He was attuned to her facial expressions, the slight hitch in her tone that meant something was amiss and he realized that he had _genuinely_ missed her.

“Um. It’s...Quentin.” She started softly, hesitating over each word. 

“What happened?” He asked immediately, forcing himself to move into a sitting position. His limbs screamed with resistance, cracking and stretching like he wasn’t used to his body anymore.

“He’s...he got in the way near the end and he hit his head...I believe Margo said the word ‘amnesia’.” She said it funny, _am-neigh-sha_.

Eliot blinked. “How...how much does he remember?”

She shook her head, “I haven’t...I’m sorry, I haven’t been to see him, we didn’t know if you would wake up, it’s been hit or miss for the last few days.”

“I need to see him.” Eliot said immediately.

“Eliot, dear, you need to rest--”

“Fen, I _need_ to see him. _Now_.” He said seriously, putting a hand on her arm gently.

Fen pursed her lips, obviously distressed at the idea but she conceded and helped him out of bed.

When he stood, he could tell his chest had been banged up pretty bad, given the layers of gauze, how his left arm felt almost loose in its socket, but other than that he was completely fine. He felt a sting of shame over his good fortune while his best friend suffered so much.

He threw on a robe and followed Fen to Quentin’s quarters.

Eliot’s mind spun. 

All he’d wanted was to be free. He’d _promised_ himself that as soon as he was out, as soon as he was _himself_ again, he would run to Quentin and confess to everything; the fear that had incapacitated him from returning Q’s feelings, how every time he looked at Q his heart swelled with affection, every touch, kiss, slide of skin was _torture_ because it left him feeling unhinged and insane knowing that there was no future there.

And then there _was_ and Eliot had snuffed the flame out, leaving them both cold.

They reached the door and Eliot turned to her. “Look, I need to do this...alone. Do you understand?” He asked, keeping her gaze, lowering his head as to let her know he was serious.

“Okay--yes, that’s--okay.” She said, flustered.

“Thank you, Fen.” He turned toward the door, took a deep breath and entered.

Quentin was sitting in his bed, pouring over books. Alice sat in a chair beside the bed, identifying things for him. Quentin’s hair was pulled back in a bun, strands had fallen loose in front of his face. He was biting his lip in a way that made Eliot think that maybe Fen had been wrong, maybe he was fine after all.

“Q.” Eliot breathed, his voice a whisper.

They both looked up. Quentin’s eyes flicked up and down, absorbing Eliot.

Alice got to her feet, looked like she wanted to move forward and hug him but Eliot held up a hand to stop her.

“Alice, please. Can you give us a moment?” He asked, eyes soft while directed at her, trying to convey a wordless message _we’ll have our reunion later_.

Alice, like Fen, looked like she wanted to fight the request but she nodded once, stiff, and left the room without rebuttal.

When the door was shut, Eliot trained all his attention on Quentin.

Quentin cocked his head to the side. “Are you Eliot?”

 _Oh fuck_ , that was _heartbreaking_.

“Yes.” He said carefully, trying hard to keep his voice steady.

“They told me a little bit about you.” Quentin said, closing the book in his lap and setting it aside. “We saved you from some sort of demon? Everyone’s been throwing a _lot_ of information at me the last few days so it’s been kinda hard to keep it straight.”

Eliot nodded, trying to figure out what to say.

“Do you remember Brakebills at all?” Eliot asked carefully, walking forward and taking Alice’s chair for himself.

Q shrugged, eyes flying back and forth through the room. “I don't know, everything’s a mess in my head. I remember bits and pieces I guess but everything’s really…” He squinted. “...fuzzy. And if I think about stuff for too long my head starts to hurt.”

“Have...have the healers said anything?” Eliot’s mouth was dry. He didn’t remember anything, he didn’t remember _them_.

Quentin’s expression darkened. “They said I could remember everything tomorrow, or I could never recover. It’s, it’s like the last four years of my life have just been...wiped.”

“... _fuck_.” Eliot said, and he wasn’t a crier, never had been, but the tears were welling, threatening to spill over and reveal how much this was killing him.

“I guess I kept journals though.” Quentin said, hand running over the book on his bed.

“What?” Eliot snapped out of his thoughts and looked at the book.

“Yeah, I was pretty thorough. It’s nice to know that, like, this was _me_ saying all this stuff rather than someone trying to explain my life to me, ya know?”

“Journals. You journaled.” Eliot repeated. “I...I can’t recall you ever writing.”

“Yeah, I don't know, guess I must’ve kept it pretty secret, but there’s a ton of them. They’ve been really helpful.” Quentin said, teeth sliding over his bottom lip again.

“Um...in what way?” Eliot asked airily.

"I...I know that we…” Quentin trailed off, eyes trained on the comforter. “We _had_ something, right?”

Eliot swallowed around a lump in his throat that would not go away. “We...yeah, we really did.”

“I wrote about you a lot.” Quentin said, tapping on the cover.

“Oh really?” Eliot said, interest piqued. 

“Yeah, pretty extensively.” Quentin said, cheeks heating up a little. 

It didn’t escape Eliot. “But you don't...remember me.” He said.

Quentin shrugged again. “I...it’s like...I _know_ you, I can tell I do. I...I remember your _eyes_ , and, like, the tone of your voice, but...I can’t...I can’t _see_ you in my memory.” 

Eliot reached out, hand shaking. He touched Quentin’s arm who in turn tensed up at the contact.

“Q, I...I hope you’ll...I hope you’ll let me in. I know it might take awhile--” He stopped, fighting back a sob that threatened to rip out of his throat but instead he cleared it and pushed on. “--but I need you to know, the only way I was able to get out was because of you.”

Quentin slowly touched Eliot’s hand with his own. “I’m…” god, he was _shaking_. “I’m going to need time but-- _fuck_ , my heart is _racing_ right now.” Quentin cut himself off, voice trailing off in a surprised giggle, something nervous and twitchy that _screamed_ Quentin.

He was still in there, just lost a little, like Eliot had been.

Eliot sniffed and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we kinda do that to each other.” He made a sound akin to the one Quentin had made.

Quentin opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before smiling a little, dimples appearing on his face. “Okay, so maybe, like, let’s get some lunch or something?” He suggested.

Eliot nodded firmly. “Yeah, yes. Let’s do that.” 

“Okay, sweet, I’m like, _craving_ fruit right now, is that weird? I’ve been dying for some now for the past couple of days.” 

Eliot smiled wide, one that showed his teeth and he felt hope bubble up in his chest.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Peaches and plums?” He said, made the suggestion lightly in case Quentin didn’t recognize the phrase.

He didn’t, Eliot could see that, but maybe he wasn’t that far into the journals. There was time. They would build this back up again. Eliot would tell him everything and they would have _something_ , he wouldn’t let it slip through his fingers this time.

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, that sounds _awesome_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me for some truly shit blogging  
> https://valkyrie0cain.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there wasn't supposed to be more of this but here you go?

Two months crawl by at a dauntingly slow pace that reminds Eliot of his wayward summers at Brakebills. He recalls the baking sun, the light that was too white for upstate New York, more of a Coloridian sun, too high in the mountains, too close, an Icarus incarnation of a setting.

He is not, however, the same carefree albeit wildly depressed boy he once was.

Quentin, after being reintroduced to the castle-staff and given a rundown of everything that had happened in their kingdom, was starting to finally settle into his role as king.

He enjoyed exploring the castle, everything fresh and new, still thrown off by the talking animals, still downright _gleeful_ that Fillory was real.

But Eliot liked his magic lessons the most.

They would hole up in one of the smaller libraries, and Eliot would instruct that they not be bothered during their sessions, even took it upon himself to have guards posted at the doors to stop anyone who might intrude.

He’d stay with Quentin for hours, teaching him spells from books he’d obtained from Brakebills, from Fogg himself who chastised Eliot for not bringing Quentin back to Brakebills for his re-education.

But Eliot didn’t need Fogg’s permission, he had his sympathy. It was more than enough to get Fogg to let him take a stack of Year One and Two books and get a chance to have Quentin to himself.

Quentin was currently stammering out a lengthy Romanian spell and Eliot corrected one or two words he mispronounced, reaching out and gently arranging Quentin’s fingers tighter together.

“This is impossible.” Quentin said solemnly when a half-hour had passed and he still couldn’t get fire to light in the palm of his hand.

“It’s not, you’ve done it before.” Eliot said patiently.

“Yeah, well I don't _remember_.” Quentin snapped, like Eliot had _forgotten_.

Like the last two months hadn’t been _killing_ Eliot.

*

The monster was gone, and for ten _fucking_ minutes it seemed like things were going to stay calm for the magicians. But Eliot was riddled with nightmares. He’d find himself pacing outside Quentin’s room several nights a week, too frightened to knock on the door and ask if he could just...lay with him, feel him close by, hear his heartbeat, breathe in the familiar scent.

He’d had it for fifty years.

But nothing was better than being Quentin’s friend, being in his life and having this electric connection with someone he loved.

That was what held him back.

Quentin was so far away from him and Eliot couldn’t afford to push any further.

There were moments though.

*

One time Quentin was working on some basic ward spells but he kept conjuring up _frogs_ and looking at Eliot desperately who would cackle and let it rain amphibians for a couple seconds before vanishing them all with a wave of his hand and reminding Quentin to curl his pinky a little closer to the palm of his hand.

But then he’d _nailed_ it, the white lights appearing around them for a moment before becoming invisible to the human eye.

The _joy_ that crossed his face, the way his whole expression lightened and his shoulders dropped in relief--it made Eliot’s heart miss a beat.

Quentin turned his way, closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around Eliot’s frame.

It didn’t take Eliot more than a second to respond to the contact, for him to revel at the way they _fit_.

Quentin pulled back and he had that soft smile on his face, the one he got when he was truly happy, the one he’d had when he’d taken a chance and kissed Eliot at the mosaic.

For a brief second, Eliot thought Quentin was going to kiss him again but he didn’t.

Several times a week they would join Margo and Fen in the throne room and get _smashed_ , drinking through multiple decanters of wine and sipping on Eliot’s never-ending flask of vodka when the wine would get to be too much and their mouths would dry to the point of gasping out words.

Quentin would sit at Eliot’s feet, lean back against them and arch his head into Eliot’s fingers that would thread through Quentin’s hair.

Quentin had a _thing_ about being scratched, pet at, craving the approval and validation.

It made Eliot, well--horny as fuck--how bad Quentin wanted to please.

Quentin would get this very serious look on his face every now and then, like he was having a flashback and his eyes would flick to Eliot before darting away, trying to find anything else to focus on but Eliot noticed the way his hand clenched and released, how his stance would straighten. His mind was grasping for something, begging to connect dots without a map.

They’d walk through the castle halls together, arms brushing and sometimes they’d bump hands and for a brief moment Eliot would hope they’d properly intertwine fingers and Quentin would pull him into the nearest abandoned room.

It didn’t happen.

 _Nothing_ was happening.

And Eliot’s patience was wearing incredibly thin.

He felt so selfish. Quentin was dealing with something that couldn’t be fixed with magic. Like cancer, amnesia was something that was inside you, apart of your body. Eliot started having nightmares about reaching into Q’s chest cavity and pulling out a dark orb, a physical representation of the ailment.

But it wasn’t that simple.

He started drinking heavier than usual and earlier in the day, making excuses to end royal meetups between himself, Margo, and Quentin before all necessary matters had been discussed. He avoided Fen when it was possible. He didn’t hate her, not at all, but he was drained, had little energy to invest in her when he was so upset about Quentin.

One day, Margo found him in the throne room, sitting sideways in his seat and dazedly waving a hand around at a group of fiddle players. He’d commanded them to play for him while in the middle of his third--very large--glass of wine.

“El, honey, what the _hell_ is going on with you?” She asked sharply.

The fiddle players didn’t stop so she fixed them with a death-stare until their playing tapered off and finally, stopped completely.

“Get the _fuck_ out.” She spat and they scuttled away hastily.

Eliot used this time to reach for the ornate bottle of wine a server had left for him and pour more into his glass. _Most_ of it didn’t spill over the sides.

“Eliot, _look_ at me.” Margo said once they were alone.

He tilted his head to the side, eyelids drooping, smile tight and holding back a laugh before taking a huge gulp from his glass.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” She asked, hands on her hips.

“Oh, Bambi, I _really_ missed you. You know that, right?” He said, blinking lazily at her, not completely hearing her question.

She softened a little, moved towards him and put a hand on his shoulder, lent over him almost _ominously_ but that wasn’t her intention. Margo was _always_ ominous.

“Eliot.” They’d always had that _thing_ between them, could speak in paragraphs by just saying each other’s names.

“It’s my fault.” He says, speaking clearer than Margo would’ve expected given the state he was in.

She pulls her hand back, gives him some space. “What’re you talking about?”

“Q, all the bullshit with his head. If I’d just... _died_ , let that fucking demon eat my soul--or whatever--then he’d be fine.”

Margo started to speak but Eliot cut her off. “I know it’d be... _sad_ or whatever, but eventually you all would’ve moved on despite your lives forever lacking that certain flair I bring to any room I walk into.”

“I’m glad your ego hasn’t dampened in your downward spiral.” She said flatly.

He raised his glass as if to toast to that.

“Now listen up, dipshit--” She said, eyes narrowing at him. “--none of us would’ve been _fine_ if you had died, okay? Fen would’ve lost her mind, I would’ve...probably _ruined_ the kingdom without having you by my side and Quentin?” Her bottom lip wobbled. “He wouldn’t have stuck around. And I’m not talking moving to Europe, honey. He would’ve _killed_ himself.”

Eliot ticks his chin up, meeting her gaze.

“Did anyone tell you what happened? How his _accident_ happened?” She asked.

He shook his head, lolling it side to side.

She took a deep breath. “We thought we had figured everything out, ya know? The monster had almost finished assembling it’s new body. We lied and got him cornered in a clean room, one in Fillory, one powerful enough to stop _gods_ from casting.”

Eliot screwed his face up in confusion. “But, then how did you--”

“Julia. She talked to her crazy god-mother, quite _literal_ in this case, and had her deal with him. Once the monster left your body, she reverse-engineered the room and opened up some rift in space a'la Star Trek and the monster...Eliot, it _grabbed_ you. And Quentin just... _panicked_. He ran at it and threw himself at the monster and it wasn’t expecting it.

“But the monster could tell it had power again and there was a huge explosion, almost took the room with it. We were so _scared_ that you both were dead. When we cast the dust away we realized the monster was gone and you two were knocked out, but Eliot--Quentin wasn’t _breathing_. We didn’t think he’d make it. There was...honey, there was a lot of blood.”

Eliot set his glass aside, stunned into silence.

“That boy _loves_ you. Just cause he doesn’t know it right now doesn’t make it less true, got it?”

Eliot reached out, wrapped an arm around her knees and pulled her in close.

“I love you, Margo.” He said softly.

She didn’t respond, merely patted his head, but the tears falling down her cheeks were enough.

*

A few weeks later, on a chillier day than they’d had all summer, Eliot found Quentin in the dining hall as servers in gray smocks weaved around him, removing platters of half-eaten food from the tables, picking up goblets with a few dregs of wine or orange juice still staining the bottom, collecting silverware handfuls at a time.

Yet Quentin sat, immobile, bending one of his journals back and forth and staring at the dark cherry-red-and-brown of the table.

“Q?” He said lightly as a way to announce his arrival.

Quentin didn’t jolt like Eliot thought he would. He looked at up, dejected. “Oh. Hey.”

“What’s the matter?” Eliot asked, sitting beside him on the long bench.

“I...I’m kind of a piece of shit, huh?” Quentin asked, voice as despairing as his expression.

“What...the fuck are you talking about?” Eliot asked.

“Look, I-I-I _remember_ how I felt before Brakebills, how unhappy and checked out of the world I was, and reading _this_ \--” Quentin hoists up his journal, “--it--I don't paint myself in the best light. So much... _shit_ has happened that’s _my_ fault and I--”

Quentin’s _panicking_ so Eliot snatches the journal out of his hands, slams it on the table.

“Q, _stop_.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m not the best at giving pep talks, I’ll be the first to admit it but I’m going to give it my best shot so listen up. Not all this _shit_ is your fault, half of the stuff that actually happened was because of monsters or bad-decision making or fucking _fairies_ , so don't try to take all the credit.

Second, I’ve seen you come out of some pretty tough shit, like being lost in a mental mind palace and pulling yourself out, or trusting someone everyone else thinks is insane and putting all your eggs in that basket. You fight for your friends. You’re _loyal_. You’re honest about the things you love.

And third, we _all_ have our shit. But the funny thing about being stuck in some super-fucked up version of Hogwarts is that we get stronger when we deal with it together. I know you don't remember a lot of it, but we do and we all still _love_ you.”

Eliot reaches out and flicks Quentin’s forehead. It seems to shock him.

“So stop being such a droopy damsel and buck up. We need you to be your relatively fabulous, maladjusted self.”

Eliot doesn’t know how much of what he said actually got through to Quentin but the man inhales sharply, exhales long and with content and nods a little.

“For the record, you’re not bad at pep talks.”

Eliot shrugs. “Being king hasn’t been a total waste.”

*

Their library sessions double time-wise because Quentin is determined to be the magician he once was. Eliot doesn’t argue.

He’s in the middle of teaching Quentin to manipulate dark matter. They’re standing together, facing a circle of it that Quentin is twisting with each move of his fingers. After he makes it disappear he holds his fists up triumphantly and hugs Eliot again.

Eliot leans in, resting the tip of his nose on Quentin’s temple and he doesn’t _mean_ to do it but he inhales deep, lashing fluttering shut.

“E-Eliot?” Quentin stammers.

“Yeah?” He blinks his eyes open lazily before suddenly realizing what he’s doing. “Oh--shit, sorry, Q, old habits, ya know?” He says, pulling back, sliding his body away but Quentin suddenly has a grip on his hand, was holding on tight.

“Hey.” Quentin says softly.

Eliot looks at him, reassembles the mask he was so used to wearing these days. “Yeah?”

Quentin’s cheeks pink. “Just--my body, it...look, I feel... _good_ . Around you. I don't...remember you but my body does and I...can you just hold me for a minute?” He asks weakly, like halfway through his request he thinks he sounds _stupid_.

Eliot thinks it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

He holds his arms open and lets Quentin back in, his head resting on Eliot’s chest. Quentin’s breathing is stuttering, like he’s fighting to hold himself together and Eliot’s not doing much better.

“It’s going to be okay, Q.” Eliot hears himself say.

Quentin pulls back and looks up, those murky, brown eyes wide and a little wet.

“I know. Cause you’re here.” He says.

“Fuck.” Eliot lets the curse slip out without meaning to and it makes Quentin smile. It’s a nice moment but Eliot’s coming down hard, deep-seated in the reality of the situation. “We should...probably g--”

Quentin pushes up on his toes and cuts Eliot off with a kiss.

Eliot’s not expecting it and his hands grip Quentin’s arms, like he’s ready to push him away but he doesn’t, he _freezes_ and lets Quentin keep kissing and there’s that edge of clumsy enthusiasm that makes Quentin so fucking adorable and shakes Eliot out of his inaction.

He puts a hand on Quentin’s neck and tilts his head, deepening the kiss, making it wet and filthy and it’s mere moments before they’re grabbing at one another, trying to pull off ridiculous high-buttoned layers or slip a hand down pants that are much too tight.

But Eliot gets a grip and manages to separate their mouths, has his hands on Quentin’s shoulders.

Quentin’s eyes are blown out, Eliot glances down at his red, shiny mouth and _fuck_ , that’s a bad idea cause it makes him want to push Q back onto the table and--

“Look--” He starts. “This is--great. It’s, I...we should wait?” He says, his tone not convincing.

“Why?” Quentin blurts out, bites his lip, the perfect picture of a cute rabbit you just want to fuck the shit out of.

Which is, like, a fucked up thing to think of? But in Fillory it’s actually legal as long as they consent? Which makes it even weirder and--okay, he’s getting off track.

“Cause you--this is--” Eliot’s fingers drum on Quentin’s shoulders and he’s trying to think of a reason for them _not_ to do this. “I need you to be _sure_.” He says thickly. “I _need_ that.”

“How do you know I’m not sure?” Quentin asks.

“I--I don't know, I’m kind of freaking out cause this is, like, you and me sober and not stuck doing a puzzle together for a million years so I think I’m...yeah, I’m having a panic attack.” Eliot says, finally realizing his heart won’t _stop_ pounding.

“Um--” Quentin immediately lets go and draws back a little. “--okay, let’s--here, sit down.” He says and makes Eliot sit. “Okay, so just breathe.” He says, takes his own deep breaths to show Eliot what to do.

Eliot mimics him, breathing long and hard until his head doesn’t feel fuzzy.

“Better?” Quentin asks.

“Think so.” Eliot says slowly.

And then Quentin, being _Quentin_ , says unorthodoxly, “I’m gonna get you in bed one of these days.”

“Oh my god, _stop_.” Eliot says, putting a hand over his eyes, elbow on the table. “I’m in a _fragile_ state right now.”

“Not yet you’re not.” Quentin says cheekily.

Eliot barks out a laugh and gives him a look. “Oh honey, you definitely _don't_ remember what a bottom you are, do you?”

Quentin flushes, to the tips of his ears and down his throat. “Guess you’ll have to show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so someone tell me to stop and i'll stop cause i may very well write another chapter but I DONT KNOW???
> 
> valkyrie0cain on tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your soul stained my shoulders. My whole life smells like you. This will take time."

Eliot knows there’s things to do; matters of diplomacy, people to delegate--he might not be _high king_ anymore but Margo _relies_ on his input but...none of it _matters_ , not like Quentin.

They go on hunts together with no _actual_ intention of hunting, both on horseback while the animals bitch and moan about the length of the journey but Eliot’s dying to get away from prying eyes, and in Fillory there’s no shortage of loose lips.

Fucking talking animals.

He’s promised things to the horses that he’s not even sure he can _provide_ but luckily they agree to keep their mouths shut.

They ride for hours, talking about nothing of real importance. Eliot’s behind Quentin and _yeah_ , technically he should be riding ahead--he’s _certainly_ farther up on the totem pole of royalty--but he’s also _totally_ into watching Quentin’s body rock back and forth as they trot through the forest.

They lounge by streams and have long, unencumbered picnics full of fresh bread and creamy cheeses, berries that explode with flavor on their tongues and slabs of ham they lazily pull at until their fingers are shined from the fat.

They practice sword fighting but it’s more like seeing who can tackle the other first, especially since they’re playing with practice blades, _especially_ since they pick patches of meadow with tall grass where no one can see them once they fall.

Eliot’s the one that usually gets Quentin on his back for the simple fact that he’s lighter on his feet and has actually _had_ a bit of practice in the sword department, can fake a lunge that Quentin tries to dodge and get him from another angle where he’s exposed. The horses whinny and swear in the background, swapping stories and making bets on future jousting matches they’re signed up for.

Quentin, with his ruddy-cheeks and sweat-shined forehead tucks his chin down and rolls his eyes, struggles in Eliot’s hold but accepts the kiss when Eliot leans in.

There’s a lightness with them now, an ease that had always been there _before_ and was slowly starting to rekindle. Quentin was still lost, grasping for things he couldn’t quite make out, but it was _there_. He still got nervous when they kissed too hard, dug his fingers into Eliot’s shoulders and gasped when they parted, like his own body shocked him.

It was maddening.

 

*

 

The summer switches from teasingly warm to brutally hot and no amount of cooling magic can keep them comfortable.

Margo’s tight power-dresses become more flowy, nearly see-through affairs that leave the servers and council blushing.

Eliot’s shirts are always open in the front, and Quentin begins doing the same. So summer--not _all_ bad.

There’s a lull happening, there’s no adventure to take-on, no quest to get swept up in, they’re all stagnant; handling small, personal issues during the public’s time when individuals will come in and plea for a verdict from High King Margo is the most exciting part of the day.

It’s odd, really, to have _time_ to do things, eat a full meal, play a game of Push or get their steps in walking around the castle.

Eliot decides to organize a boat trip to one of the nearby islands, has an itch to get out _do_ something, makes the excuse that he wants some exotic fruit for the castle.

He takes to the task at full-force. One afternoon he stands alongside the ship talking to the crew lined up to go on the voyage with him. The smell of salt and sweat hangs thick in the air and the edges of the docks are lined with fisherman selling wares, shouting at the passersby as they hoist up large fish and woven baskets of oysters the size of fists. Eliot’s mouth floods with saliva when he catches sight of them and he contemplates getting a basket before he spots Quentin striding across the dock towards him.

Eliot smiles fondly but Quentin doesn’t return it. Instead he looks serious-- _scared_ almost. It rattles something in Eliot when Quentin grabs his hand firmly and starts pulling him away.

“Q, what’s the matter?” He asks.

Quentin’s panting, like he’s been running, like he _ran_ all the way to the dock to find him.

Eliot--he’s got this crazy idea that Quentin’s suddenly _remembered_ everything, or maybe he’s just so worked up he’s decided that now’s when they’re going to have their reunion-fuck.

Eliot’s not _pushing_ for it, but he’s been excited at the possibility-- _sue_ him.

It’s neither of those things.

Once they’ve trekked through sand then sandy grass, and finally just grass, Quentin stops and lets go of Eliot’s hand, stares at him with wide, glassy eyes.

“Q?” Eliot prompts, anxious for whatever's about to happen.

“My dad--” Quentin says hoarsely. “--is _dead_.”

And _oh fuck_ , now Eliot feels like a _major_ asshole, grade-a douchebag.

Because in all the madness he _forgot_ about that part.

He didn’t recall every single that happened when he was possessed but he remembered the feelings he had, the fistfuls of chips and sugar candy that had added weight to his body, the weeks he’d go without showering. He saw things, like dreams, though he’d never slept, didn’t have the ability to in the Happy Place.

And--yeah, Quentin’s father had died.

“I...Q--”

“Don't.” Quentin says sharply, his voice shaky. “It’s...whatever--I just. I need to--I need to _see_ the grave, okay?” His eyes are so intense, _burning_ through Eliot and eating him from the inside out.

“Of course.” Eliot whispers.

“Will you come with me?”

Eliot chokes on his next breath. It locks in his throat and hitches his words. “Uh...yeah, I...yeah, of course, Q.” He’s still whispering, can’t hear over the rushing in his ears. In the distance they can still hear the faint shouts of the fisherman.

 

*

 

The visit is quick, somber, _freezing_ cold--it _has_ to be mid-November on Earth but Eliot only wears a thin jacket, holds an umbrella over himself and Quentin even though it’s not raining.

Quentin takes his sleeve and brushes away a layer of snow that’s fallen over the stone wedged in the ground.

_Ted Coldwater, Loving Father, Friend to All_

“Hey, dad.” Quentin says softly. Eliot doesn’t know if he should silently move away or stay put but he doesn’t want to ask.

Eliot doesn’t understand the connection Q and his dad had--having never had it himself. Years of repressed feelings and a sense of overwhelming grief had created a rather thick layer of protection around anything resembling emotion so Eliot stood stoic while Quentin poured his soul out, told his dad about his adventures and his accident.

Quentin promises his dad he’ll be back and kisses the tips of his first two fingers and presses them against the stone.

When he stands, he’s so _sunken_ in, caged up and Eliot wonders if he’s crying but Q turns and looks at him and there’s no tears in his eyes.

“That boat trip you were going on, can I come?” He asks, small and hopeful.

Eliot wraps a hand around his shoulder. “Yeah, Q.”

 

*

 

There’s something about the sea-salt smell of the ocean combined with the leather of his boots and sheath and belt that makes Eliot inherently...horny.

There’s a lack of wind right now--the air around them is suffocating, makes his throat tighten up, hold every breath a second too long. He finds solace in the dark, musky whiskey that the crew ladles straight out of a redwood barrel, something that makes him shudder and unfurl like a cat; he’s got space in his limbs, he can stretch out and walk on the balls of his feet, move languidly like there’s a purpose with each step--there might not be but fuck it, he can pretend there is. It’s not the first time he’s gone by the seat of his pants, and it won’t be the last.

Quentin stands at the helm of the ship, peering out a telescope and telling Benedict, the map writer, about new ridges in the islands where sharp waves ripped up the landscape, the nuances he must fix to make the maps more precise.

Eliot admires the lines of Quentin’s body for longer than necessary and Quentin turns his head, spots him looking and Eliot shifts his gaze, pretends he’s gazing out at the sea but his cheeks heat at the thought of being caught.

When he looks back he sees Quentin smirking a little but resuming his conversation with Benedict.

 

*

 

It’s only a two-day trek to the island Eliot had in mind, lies between Whitespire and The Outer Island; a small hump of land that no one actually lives on containing fruits and tropical herbs people liked to harvest. It was like a seaside farmers market and since no one actually owned the island, a free-for-all.

There’s only a handful of folks milling about when they magic the boat to stay still alongside the shore. Eliot and Quentin venture out for an hour or so, letting the civilians greet them despite not entirely caring about their royal status.

The crew gathers large yellow and red fruit, pick herbs for the royal kitchen to use and other herbs for them to smoke on the ride back. It’s a quick affair in which Eliot and Quentin spend most of it sitting on the shore, boots off, letting the warm-ish water lick at their feet.

The wares are loaded onto the ship and a man comes to call on Eliot and Quentin who discuss staying overnight alongside the island, stretching the journey out a little longer just for the hell of it. The man tells them without the magic cooling barrels back at the castle the fruit will spoil, and the two-day trip back would be stretching it already.

Begrudgingly, they get back onto the ship and the boat sets sail for Whitespire.

 

*

 

Quentin spends hours on the deck, letting the spray of the sea kiss his skin and the sound of seagulls squawk and circle overhead, occasionally swooping low like they might try and land but they never do.

Eliot walks up and joins him along the edge, puts an arm around his shoulders. “So, how are you feeling about your first boat trip?” He asks lightly.

Quentin’s got a handful of Island Berries, as they’re called, they’re like grapes and raspberries combined--a strange, sweet fruit that leaves a weird coating on your tongue. Eliot raises up his palm and Quentin dumps a few out for him.

“It’s not the first, right?” Quentin asks.

Eliot sighs dejectedly, pops a berry in his mouth before answering. “No, you went after--” He stops abruptly, a small, frustrated noise eeking out of his throat. “I don't want to give any spoilers."

“The mosaic.” Quentin finishes for him.

Eliot freezes, arm going rigid over Quentin. He slides away, turning to face him fully. “You...read about the mosaic.” It’s not a question.

Quentin nods, small and aborted. “Just started to.”

“Uh....thoughts?” Eliot breathes.

“How long did it take?” Q asks.

Eliot smiles sadly. “Keep reading.” He eats another berry.

Quentin closes his eyes, exhales through his nose. “Look, I...I can’t think about this right now.”

“Okay.” Eliot says flatly.

“I…I--” Quentin does that _Quentin_ thing and flickers his eyes back and forth, looks like his mind is forming paragraphs where he can barely get sentences out.

He makes a sound, scared and uncertain somewhere buried in the back of his throat and grabs hold of Eliot’s wrist and then he’s pulling him away, then they reach Quentin’s cabin and he closes the door behind them.

Quentin’s as bright-eyed and slack-jawed as Eliot is.

There’s this look in his eye, and Eliot _knows_ what it is, had seen it scores of times throughout their lifetime spent together.

With the door closed their world grows insanely small--no longer out in the open fields but resigned to four walls and a ridiculously comfy-looking bed.

Eliot swallows roughly and pretends to be interested in the few things on Q’s nightstand.

Fuck, he’s not the _nervous_ type.

He almost wants to be _angry_ about it.

“Eliot.” Quentin says softly and it’s not _fair_ , cause it sounds exactly like the old Quentin, like the desperately-seeking-attention Quentin who turned to Eliot of all people on more than one occasion, who built a _life_ with Eliot, who asked to do it all over again because he was always braver than he felt.

“Got anything to drink?” Eliot asks, voice gravel-rough.

Quentin turns too fast and knocks a couple knicknacks from his dresser, cologne bottles or something--Eliot doesn’t know, but it’s definitely glass and it shatters.

“Uh--shit, I--yeah, I have--uh--” Quentin produces a large moleskin wrap, hands it to Eliot.

He takes the skin and thumbs off the cap, is happy to find the familiar ship-whiskey when he takes a swig.

After a couple swallows he wipes at his mouth and looks over at Q who has taken a seat on the bed, hands wrapped together, thumbs pushing into one another. He’s _expectant_.

Eliot’s always been a bit of a people-pleaser when it comes to Q.

He sighs and takes a seat next to Quentin.

They exchange a look, one that speaks volumes. Eliot offers him a small smile and Quentin returns it before leaning forward at the same time Eliot reaches out and takes hold of Quentin’s waist and then they’re kissing and Quentin moves himself forward, slides over Eliot’s lap to straddle him. They exchange breaths and bang foreheads for a second and share a laugh, just an escape of air before kissing again.

Eliot makes a mental note to tell Quentin how much he loves his long hair and threads his fingers through it, pulls lightly. The way Quentin groans is so familiar.

Then something weird happens.

Eliot gets a flash of long, unkempt hair and a black coat, sunken-in eyes and too much tequila.

He gasps and breaks away from the kiss.

Quentin’s eyes are dark, but his face is scared, like he’s worried he did something.

“No, nothing, it’s nothing.” Eliot mumbles reassuringly before getting a hand on Quentin’s cheek and pulling him back in for another kiss.

He kisses with feeling, moving his lips against Quentin’s urgently, trying to get them back to that place they were only seconds before.

Again, he sees something, his own fingers wrapping around Quentin’s neck and the broken words, _do it. crush my bones_ whispered so thick and viciously that he rips away from Quentin, a shudder moving up his spine as he turns his torso and face away.

He wants to vomit.

“What? Eliot, what?” Quentin asks and his voice is _breaking_.

He’s panting but quickly gets ahold of himself and looks at Q.

“I...I can’t.” He says and it’s like a bucket of ice water. Quentin moves back to avoid the spill, face the definition of _devastated_. “Q, no--wait, it’s not--”

“Get out.” Q says and _that’s_ even more jarring.

“Quentin, let me explain--”

But, Quentin’s already ahead of Eliot mentally, probably debating the pros and cons of hitting him.

Eliot lifts his hands, twitches his fingers at Quentin and it happens again, another flash, Eliot moving his fingers and Quentin flying back and hitting the wall.

He grapples at his head, thinks that maybe the bite of his nails against his temple will ground him.

“Eliot?” Quentin says, and he’s concerned again. Can’t help being a helpful person.

“I--I keep...seeing--me as...the monster.” He says weakly.

Quentin doesn’t understand that though. He may have had people _tell_ him about what happened but he doesn’t _know_ what it means.

“Oh.” And his response is a big indicator of that.

Eliot feels _insane._

Still, he tries. “Look--I...I _remember_ what I did when that thing had control of me. And I remember _liking_ it.” Eliot says darkly, opens and closes his hand to make sure he still has some semblance of power.

Quentin’s face softens but his eyes remain rigid, “I keep seeing...red hair.”

Eliot’s eyes flick to Quentin’s face. “Arielle.” He says hollowly.

But Quentin’s shaking his head, “No, she’s...Poppy?” He says questioning.

Eliot rolls his eyes fast and lets out a groan. “Please _god_ , can we not get into Poppy right now?”

“Yeah, no, I don't--there’s other things. Julia with...with these yellow eyes, and Alice yelling at me and...Penny with no hands.”

“Okay, that’s a lot. What the fuck?” Eliot says softly.

They exchange a look, the air in the room inevitable different.

“Let’s go ask the crew if we’re near, like, a magical beacon or something.” Quentin says.

Eliot doesn’t want to leave the room but that feels like a selfish action so they both get up and leave the room.

The first man they come upon is leaning against the deck, drunk and singing off-key.

“You there.” Eliot says authoritatively.

The man sways left and looks at the pair of them.

“Me?” He prompts.

“Yes. Are we near any...psychologically-altering landmarks.”

“Huh?” The man grunts.

Eliot tries again. “Any...mind-bending seaweed patches growing below us?”

“What?”

“We’re seeing things.” Quentin says abruptly.

The man pinches his face up like he’s giving it a good think. “You’ve not been eating the Island Berries, have ya?”

Quentin takes the small sack strung to his belt. “These?” He asks, pouring some into his hand to show the man.

“Ay, those. They’re hallucinogens.”

“Sure, he doesn’t know what psychological means but he knows what a hallucinogen is.” Eliot mutters under his breath as Quentin puts the berries away.

Quentin jabs a shoulder into his side. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Some people use them to access memories, others use them to get absolutely wrecked.” The man shrugs. “In this case, _ship_ wrecked I suppose.”

"Did he just make a pun?” Eliot whispers, faux-infuriated while still speaking lowly.

“Alright, thank you, go back to your...was that Celine Dion?” Quentin asks.

“You know of Miss Dion?” The man’s eyes get wide.

“Yeah, she's--" Eliot clears his throat, "Uh, that’s a conversation for another time.” Quentin says an motions for Eliot to follow as they slip rather awkwardly away.

Once they’re back in Quentin’s cabin they stare at each other for a moment before laughing a little, it starts off small but doesn’t get too boisterous.

“So, we’re high.” Quentin says with a wave of his hand.

“Probably one of the few times I don't _want_ to be high.” Eliot comments.

“Okay, so I guess there’s no way to counter this.” Quentin says.

“Gotta ride it out.”

“Shit, we ate _so_ many of those fucking Berries.” Q mumbles, unconsciously reaching for the sack on his belt.

Eliot grabs it from him. “Yeah, lets just put these...elsewhere.” He says, dropping them onto Quentin’s dresser, quickly magicing the broken bottles on the ground so they’re reassembled and back in their proper place.

“So what do we do now?” Quentin asks.

Eliot sighs through his nose. “Well, since apparently the universe wants to cockblock me into the next eternity, let’s...talk?” He suggest with a small shrug of his shoulders.

They sit on the bed, scooch back until they’re against the wall.

“So, the mosaic.” Quentin prompts.

“Yeah, there’s something fun to talk about.” Eliot says dryly.

Quentin moves forward, opens his nightstand and fishes out a journal, leather-bound and wrapped shut with a string. It’s old, handmade, something Fillorian.

“Jesus, these berries are kicking into high-gear.” Eliot mumbles, feels himself floating even though he’s definitely still sitting. It’s like his mind’s riding in a spaceship. He digs his hands into the quilt on the bed. “You read, I’m gonna...just...shut my eyes for a bit.”

“Okay.” Quentin says softly.

Eliot lets the rocking of the ship take him someplace else and he stays far away from the images of himself stepping over couches and ripping open chest cavities.

Instead he wanders towards the bright light of Fillory, thinks about the Fairies and Loria and escaping cannibals. He thinks of Fen and his daughter/not daughter.

He thinks of him and Quentin sharing a hut for fifty years, how his hands grew calloused after palming hard, grainy stones day after day.

“We...had a son.” Quentin’s voice is far away, echoes but brings him crashing back to reality and his eyes slide open, like a projector ready to perform, an instant motion that rips him from the smell of firewood and the taste of peaches.

It’s not what Eliot expects to hear. His heart goes from hammering to a soft thrum, but he can still taste it on his tongue, feel the rhythm in his ears.

“Yes.” He finally says, swallows and holds a hand out in a wordless question for the whiskey, which probably isn’t the best idea when tripping on Berries but--whatever.

“Can you...can you tell me about him?” Quentin asks after handing him the moleskin.

Eliot’s face breaks a little at that and he quickly gulps down some liquid courage.

When he dares look at Quentin he finds the other man looking around like he’s searching for a security blanket, doesn’t _remember_ that Eliot was that blanket for _decades_.

“He was...fucking god-sent.” Eliot says, huffing a laugh.

Quentin’s troubled expression deepens, digs into his forehead, at the lines around his mouth. Eliot can feel himself swelling with emotion. It’s getting caught in his chest and he can’t _breathe_ properly.

“You had a wife.” Eliot says, hoping that words will stem down the quiver that threatens to break out. “Arielle. She was beautiful, Q. Red hair, dark eyes. But--Teddy--he...he looked just like you.”

“Teddy.” Quentin repeats, and his tone sounds so familiar with the name, like he’s read it over and over, like the pages might be stained with the the hues from the mosaic, bright blues and dark greens, smatterings of oranges and browns--the tiles swim in Eliot’s vision time and again, and he’s constantly pulled between who he was _there_ and who he is _here._

Fifty years wiped on _top_ of the four Q originally lost.

All of it--gone.

He doesn’t _remember_ asking Eliot to do it again.

But that also means he doesn’t remember Eliot turning him down.

“Theodore Rupert Coldwater-Waugh.” Eliot says before cracking a small grin. “I called him ColdWaughter.” He enunciates it different.

Quentin doesn’t laugh, which is _fine_ but it’s a good joke.

“So...so what--”

“Arielle died.” Eliot said abruptly. “Something like the Plague, or a Fillorian version of it. Not pretty. But you _loved_ her, Q. And she loved you.” He debates saying the next part. “And sometimes we all loved each other at the same time.”

Quentin looks over at him, face unreadable.

“Yeah, so _that_ happened, and then it was just you and me till Teddy left, and then another couple decades passed, and, well...I mean, I really hate giving spoilers but I...died.”

It’s quiet for what must be thirty seconds and then, “You _died_.” Quentin repeats.

“Yeah, but like, I’ve died five or six times so it’s not a big deal.” He waves his hand at the idea. “But then Jane came and got the key and you sent a letter back in time and--well, that parts all a little confusing for me but we ended up _not_ having to do any of that cause Margo gave us the key we were after.”

Quentin’s expression goes from pained to sullen. “So...so is Teddy…”

Eliot shrugs. “Technically we never did any of that...so _technically_ he’s not...he’s not _real_ , Q, but there’s so many time-loops out there...he’s got to be alive on _some_ linear plane. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

Quentin hoists up the journal a little. “I mention him a little but...guess it was all too painful.”

“Yeah, not the best part.”

He suddenly realizes that Quentin might have written about the conversation they had after they returned, after they remembered.

“Um...maybe...maybe just skip the next few parts, ya know? Save it for some other time. Guarantee you’ll have a happier time reading about dragons.”

“I meet a dragon?” Quentin says, face lighting up a bit.

Eliot pats his arm. “Yeah, a couple. So just...skip to that part, skip to the dragons.”

“Okay.” Quentin says tiredly, closing the journal and tossing it on his nightstand.

“Mkay, I’m going to let you pass out.” Eliot says and shifts to the edge of the bed.

Quentin grabs his arm. “Don't.” He says. “Please. Stay.”

“Q…” Eliot says, gearing up to say no.

“El…” Quentin says and, well... _shit_.

“Yeah, okay.” Eliot says, stands and unbuttons his top shirt,  tossing it aside, getting out of his boots and jeans. “But we’re sleeping.” He says firmly.

“Mmhmm.” Quentin hums but it doesn’t sound convincing given the way he was watching Eliot undress, how his fingers fumble with his own buttons when he does the same.

Eliot lays on the bed, on his side with his face propped up in his palm while he in turn watches Quentin, amused that he’s so shaky.

“Think the Berries are wearing off.” Quentin mumbles.

“Yeah but the liquor’s starting to kick in.” Eliot replies cheekily, grabbing the moleskin next to him and taking another few pulls.

Quentin smiles, nerves calming and gets into bed beside him.

They magic the lights to dim, faces dark and cast with shadows.

Quentin takes the moleskin from between them and puts it on his nightstand.

They look at each other, quietly breathing the same air but neither makes any move to kiss.

It’s...nice.

“How did we use to sleep?” Q asks lightly.

Eliot’s mouth twitches and he turns, back against the bed, stares up at the ceiling. “Well, lots of different ways. Sometimes I would have you wrapped up against my chest. Other times I’d be lying facing away from you and you’d curl up against my back, really just your head and knees touching me. When we were fighting we’d sleep turned away from each other but usually end up face-to-face the next morning.”

“Do you miss that Quentin?”

Wow, Eliot didn’t expect _that_. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak for awhile.

“That’s not a yes or no answer...a...a _lot_ happened. I mean...I wish you didn’t have amnesia but you’re _alive_ so...I don't think I have the right to be choosy.”

Quentin shifts closer till his face is against Eliot’s neck, hand reaching across his chest. “I wish I could remember us.” He whispers, lips brushing over skin.

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut and resists saying _I wish you could too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was literally supposed to be a one-shot but i have no sense of self-preservation and just continue to vomit words. i think there will be one more chapter. thoughts?
> 
> chapter summary is from the poet nayyirah waheed.
> 
> valkyrie0cain.tumblr.com for truly shit blogging


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